


Family Values

by glinda4thegood



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fantasy, Gen, Ghosts, Urban Fantasy, Werecat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-08
Updated: 2011-03-08
Packaged: 2017-10-16 19:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glinda4thegood/pseuds/glinda4thegood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parauniverse: Werecat Julie Perquette solves the mystery of the Dr. Dentin's department store break-in, and disturbance in the Lady Regina underwear display.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Family Values

The sound and feel of bone crunching between my teeth, and the unfamiliar metallic-sweet taste of rodent blood seemed oddly and inexplicably awakened by the scatter of Lady Regina's Confidence scarlet and champagne-colored undergarments. When my boss saw the mess, Bob Dentin was probably going to turn the same shade of pea green that I had on that long ago afternoon when I realized a mouse tail dangled from my lips like a hairy strand of pasta.

"Oh, my dear. What happened, Julie?"

So, I wasn't the only early bird. Dr. Dentin's Department Store opened at 10 a.m., and business rarely warranted more than two salespeople. Mrs. Turing-Arnold's presence meant that Bob had decided to sleep in, and had asked his cleaning woman to substitute as sales clerk. If he had a hangover, which was probable, the desecration of his newest line of merchandise would probably kill him.

"I'm not sure. The back door was locked when I got here." I went to check the front door. Locked. "I'm calling Tom. Don't touch anything."

I made the call in Bob's office, then hurried back to keep Mrs. T-A from cleaning the crime scene.

"Dispatch says Tom is out in the patrol car with Luke. They should be here in a few minutes."

"So fortunate to have Law in the Family," Mrs. T-A said, pressing her hand against the top of her left breast dramatically. "Your husband is Such An Asset. Always Available to Help. Concerned and Capable. Best Sheriff we've Ever . . ."

Standing on the fringe of scattered clothing, listening to the old lady's distracted and emphatic ramblings, staring at the champagne-hued hillocks of a size 38-D brassiere held erect by underwire, I realized the source of the scene’s impact.

The scatter of underwear had resurrected the day after my twelfth birthday, the day I'd found out I was were. I'd gone, crying and panicked, to my mother, holding the mangled mouse by its tail. Mother took the mouse, dropped it in a nearby waste basket, wiped my cheeks, and pulled out the family album.

"It runs in the family, Julie," mom had said. "Two of your uncles, one of your grandmothers . . . all werecats."

Questions followed. Had other strange thoughts or feelings bothered me recently? Her calm acceptance quieted my panic, if it didn't banish the queasiness in my stomach. There was nothing specific I could think to tell her. The sight of the mouse scurrying across the barn floor was sharp and clear. Afterwards blurred until the crunching.

"Well, you're almost a young lady. Your body's changing -- if you're old enough to start having were episodes, you're old enough to start having menses."

More blood. We'd had a class about what to expect. I'd already known most of it, girls talk about that stuff.

It would have been better to have a similar class for kids about para potential. Like, what to expect if you turned were, pyro, telekinetic, or psychic -- started reading your parents’ minds, kindling fires in the cafeteria, levitating during gym, or catching mice with your bare hands and teeth. That would have been far more useful, I had thought resentfully.

"I have some things you'll need." Mom had disappeared into her bedroom, then returned with several small boxes. "This is a sanitary belt ... you understand how it works?" she asked, handing me one of the boxes.

I was mortified. I shook my head, almost wishing I could change places with the mouse.

"You know where I keep the pads in the bathroom." Mom opened one of the remaining boxes and pulled out something that looked like half an elastic undershirt that had been stretched over two ice cream bowls to dry. "You should be wearing bras now, you've begun developing a bosom. There are two training bras here. They'll do until we can go shopping at Dr. Dentin's. There are a few other things." For the first time in the whole unpleasant conversation, mom had looked uncomfortable. "I'll make an appointment for you to talk with Old Robin and Lise. They'll be able to tell you more than I can about being were."

I had taken the boxes and stumbled away, marveling at mom's priorities. _My daughter may be a werecat, but she'll always have plenty of clean underwear!_

Those first bras had been sturdy, blinding white garments, proletariat ancestors to the aristocratic fancies that Lady Regina designed. I'd taken them out of their boxes, stuffed the cups with socks, arrayed them on my bed and used them to play _ski trip_ with my Barbies. Months passed before they become an accepted, or necessary, part of my wardrobe.

That was the memory link, I decided. It looked like someone had been playing with the fancy underwear, hiding it under other clothing, arraying it across the floor like an aerial view of a score of camels buried up to their humps in sand ...

"Julie!" Tom's voice brought me out of the strange vision.

Half the time I'm glad that my husband is Tawshasee County Sheriff. This was one of those times. We’ve been married 15 years -- last Tuesday. My heart still flops when I see him in his neat blue uniform. It flopped when he came up the women's clothing aisle. Deputy Luke St. Onge trailed behind him with eyes goggling at what was still visible of the Regina line's piece de resistance, a bustier with pointed satin brocade cups.

"Holy cow." Tom stepped over the partial mannequin now covered with a neatly arranged pair of Carhartts. "We're going to need prints, Luke. But first, head up to the second floor and check the windows."

My husband stooped and fished a scarlet thong out from under a safari hat. It dangled from his fingers like a deflated balloon. He stared at it with a mixture of bemusement and speculation.

"You ever think . . .?"

"Absolutely not." Men. I heard Mrs. T-A making clucking sounds, and managed to cough instead of laugh.

"Thank heaven you're here, Sheriff Perquette. It's all dreadful. Simply dreadful," Mrs. T-A gushed as she closed in on Tom. "An indelicate display to begin with. Such disregard for the property of others. I can't leave things in disarray -- Dr. Dentin's customers expect order and cleanliness!"

"We'll hurry, Althea." Tom was one of a few people in the town of Redbark who'd been asked to address Mrs. T-A by her first name.

Widowed in her early 50s, with far less in the kitty then she'd supposed, Althea Turing-Arnold had gone from bridge club maven to struggling owner of a one-person cleaning service in little less than a year after her husband's death. She soon found plenty of clients, since she was as obsessive and hard working in other homes as she had been in her own. Bob loved to sing her praises. He'd told me countless times that Mrs. T-A was the best maintenance person he could ever remember being employed at Dr. Dentin's. Since his memory of the family business went back over 50 years, the recommendation had substance.

Tom caught my eye. "Take her to Joe's, and grab a cup of tea. I'll come for you when we're done."

 

We were fortunate to find a booth at Java Joe's. It looked like the second breakfast rush for late risers of the self-employed variety was in full swing.

Mrs. T-A perched on the edge of the lavender vinyl seat, holding her backbone and shoulders in an uncompromisingly straight posture. She was such a tiny woman, with slender elegant hands, and slender elegant feet. Her white hair was always waved, and air-kissed with just a suggestion of blue.

I'd seen her once, before Mr. Arnold died, dressed in silver silk, wearing ropes of rhodium, pearls and blue rhinestones. It was for a traveling production of _Hamlet_ , just after Tom had been elected to his first term. Afterwards, most of the town's social moths gathered at Helena Eisenblatt's house for a meet-the-cast party. Tom pulled me along, explaining that we needed to "get to know these people."

Watching Mrs. T-A pour a modest amount of half-and-half into her Orange Pekoe, I wondered if she had ever remembered her sudden electrifying performance of Lady Macbeth's soliloquy. Her lunge for a cake knife and refusal to leave character broke up the party -- after a lengthy round of applause.

I'd heard one of the traveling actors comment (in an English tenor that had charmed Donny Sands into closer acquaintance after the party): "Fair turned my heart into my stomach! The old cow's a dead spit for Rachel Olivier. You know, dearie -- she's dead and gone now, but you must have seen her flicks. Lady M was her signature role."

Later attempts to get Mrs. T-A to join the little theater club had met with polite disclaimers. She steadfastly refused to acknowledge her talent.

"He shouldn't have put them in the window," Mrs. T-A said, bringing me back to the present with the tap of her spoon on the teacup's rim. "I don't condone what happened, Julie, but that type of display does not reflect well on Dr. Dentin's image."

She saw the expression on my face, and an unexpectedly cheeky dimple appeared next to her wrinkled lips. "I know I'm one of an aging minority. Most young people would barely pause to remark on a window full of ladies undergarments. To a woman of my generation, though, that pointed, scarlet thing . . ."

"It's hideous," I agreed, laughing. "Bob loves it. There's something about a garment like that -- it kick-starts the sexual imagination. Does that make you uncomfortable?"

In the years I'd worked with Mrs. T-A, I'd always been myself around her. She accepted my frankness and the odd ramifications of my were-ness with good humor and well-mannered obliviousness to the more intimate aspects.

"I'm not a prude, Julie." Mrs. T-A sighed. "My generation just didn't talk about sexual imagination. Don't you find it disturbing that a traditional, family-oriented department store would place naughty garments in their main display window? There's no practical purpose for those creations. People who want to buy items like that can go to Belham -- or shop on the Internet. Dr. Dentin's isn't the appropriate --"

She trailed off, sipping more tea. She shook her head. "Values have changed since I was a girl, and not for the better."

"The novelty will wear off. Bob will find another line of merchandise to obsess over. You know what he's like, Mrs. T-A," I said.

Her hands stopped moving, and the teacup stopped halfway to her mouth. Mrs. T-A's eyes strayed past me, over my shoulder toward the rest of the crowd in the diner. "Robert is such a good boy," she said softly. "Already a capable merchant, as young as he is."

Young? Bob? I laughed. "He's only a few years younger than you are. I heard him say so at the last Christmas party."

"He was two classes behind me!" She shook her head and raised the cup to her lips with a smile. "After your forty-fifth birthday you'll understand. Old and young are concepts only incidentally related to the number of birthdays a person has accumulated. Now, do you think Tom has finished in the store?"

"He'll send Luke when they're done." The door to the diner opened, bringing a draft of fresh air to mingle with odors of coffee, bacon and eggs. I felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle, and swallowed my tea down the wrong way.

He walked by our booth as I coughed and gagged, nodding to us.

"Morning Jules. Morning Mrs. T-A."

"Good morning Nathaniel. I think Bob has those coveralls you ordered," Mrs. T-A said. "Are you all right, Julie?"

"Fine. Morning," I managed as Nate disappeared into the crowd. Mrs. T-A was right about age. I was proof that a thirty-three year old woman could act exactly like a fifteen-year-old girl.

When I quit coughing I took another cautious sip of tea.

"I don't like to pry." Her voice was tentative, embarrassed. "I know Nathaniel is were. Is that why --?"

"I always make a jackass of myself when he's in my vicinity? He was two classes ahead of me in school. Nate was one of the first kids I ever talked to about being were." His scent hung in the air around our table, reminding me . . . "You're not para, but can you smell the musk?"

"A little." She was deeply embarrassed now. "I think it's more noticeable in -- the men. It makes me think of earth, and gardening."

Lucky woman. I wasn't going to tell her what it made me think of. We were both rescued from further discomfort by Luke's arrival. Judging by the faraway look on her face, I suspected Mrs. T-A was as relieved as I was to move back into known territory.

 

Bob was in his office when we got back to the store. I heard him sputter as soon as we walked onto the main floor downstairs. Across the racks and neat displays I caught glimpses of the front windows, and the small mob of bobbing faces that peered into the store. The fact that we hadn't opened on time was at least as astonishing as the wrecked window display. Bob often bragged that in the last forty years Dr. Dentin's had opened late only once, the morning of the boiler explosion back in the mid-50s.

"Julie." Tom stepped around the wall of blue jeans that masked the entrance to the back offices. "I'll take your statement first, then Althea's." He smiled at Mrs. T-A. "You can start cleaning, if you'd like. Luke will give you a hand."

"Thank you." Mrs. T-A spun on the ball of her foot and headed toward the devastation with the air of a warrior off to do battle. Luke followed with a different kind of look, the expectant, interested kind of look of a man who would be handling women's naughty underwear.

"It has to be a prank. Julie?" Bob's stooping 6'6" frame filled the doorway to his office. He brushed away the wayward hunk of gray hair that always fell into his eyes and looked at me with a sad puppy expression. "Nobody hates underwear that much."

Tom’s face twitched as he suppressed a grin. I swallowed my own amusement and tried to comfort my boss. "It looks like a prank, Bob. Nothing was damaged, just messed up. Mrs. T-A will have everything right in no time. By noon it will be business as usual."

"Better than business as usual," Tom said smoothly. "The whole town will be in to see your underwear and gossip about the morning's events."

I turned away and pretended to yawn and cover my mouth. Later, I would smack my husband for that one.

"You don't think I did it for the publicity?" Bob's voice quavered. "My beautiful merchandise -- I'd never . . ."

"Bob. No." Tom regained his official gravity. "I talked with your wife. Beth said she drove you home from bridge club, and you slept soundly until 5 a.m., when your alarm went off, and you called Althea. May I use your office to take the ladies' statements?"

"Please, please." Bob shuffled past, red-rimmed eyes betraying the reason he’d slept so soundly. It was common knowledge that the bridge club usually wrapped up the night with martinis and tales from their glory days. "I'll help Althea and Luke. There are people waiting outside, you know."

Tom shut the door behind him, and went to sit in Bob's chair. He flipped open a legal pad, and looked at me expectantly. "What happened here, Julie?"

"I don't know." A small wisp of golden hair stood up behind one of Tom's ears. Instead of going to him and smoothing it down, I sat in one of the comfortable leather office chairs. "You know it wasn't me. You said you know it wasn't Bob. Mrs. T-A would be as likely to run naked through Java Joe's as she would to destroy a window display. That leaves two other part-time workers who have keys."

"Tabitha Greene. She spent last night with her husband at the Holiday Inn in Belham. It was their anniversary yesterday," Tom said. "And David Abrams. His wife accounts for last night and this morning until he arrived at the Methodist parsonage to help with yard work. He would have had about seven minutes unaccounted for."

"David didn't do it." David was willfully underemployed, perpetually happy, and universally accepted other people's foibles and eccentricities. He hadn’t even blinked at the bustier.

"I agree." Tom frowned down at his piece of paper. "You got here at --?”

"I unlocked the back door with my key at 9:30. Bob called last night and asked me to restock the nylon bins before we opened. Amanda Lowell had complained we were all out of queen size, nude colored support hose with reinforced toes."

Tom made a face. "Thanks for the mental image, Julie. A shipment of merchandise arrived yesterday, late afternoon?"

"Yes. That couldn't have anything to do with this, could it?"

"It's important to look at the big picture. We have our methods." Tom grinned, and the hair on the back of my neck prickled again. A familiar tingle of excited expectation brought a small prrrup of sound from my vibrating vocal chords.

Tom's grin turned into a low laugh, and his eyes searched Bob's desk, finding the calendar. "Is it that time of the month already?"

I got up, walked around the desk, smoothed his hair back into place, and dropped a kiss on his forehead. I love my husband very much, for lots of reasons. "You know it is, buddy. Just be home on time tonight."

"Horny little cat," Tom said softly. "You'd better send Althea in now."

 

From noon to the end of my shift at 4 p.m. there was a steady stream of townspeople trooping down the aisles, gawking at the Lady Regina display, and asking questions. I sold ten of the more conservative bras, five scarlet garter belts, and 12 camisole and half-slip sets. When Bob toted up the receipts it would be a good day in lingerie. Tabitha came in 20 minutes early to satisfy her curiosity before she had to take over the short shift that lasted until Dr. Dentin's closed at 6 p.m.

I told her what I knew, called a good night in Bob's door, then fled before anyone else could corner me. If I hurried I would have two hours before Tom got home to plan dinner, take a leisurely bath, and put fresh sheets on the bed.

Dinner was easy. I threw together chicken breasts, olive oil and bread crumbs and popped them into the oven along with a couple of foil wrapped potatoes. Add some salad-in-a-bag, a bottle of wine, and that chore was done.

I stripped and remade the bed while the bath water ran. I'd heard friends complain about the lack of romance in their lives after only five or six years of marriage. I didn't get that. Even without the special mid-cycle kick I get because of my were-ness, Tom and I were still interested in each other, and active about expressing that interest.

I was blessed, I thought, sliding down into the silky water scented with the blend of bath salts that Tom called "catnip bouquet." Blessed with health, happiness, and a paranormal condition that made me exceptionally interested in sex once a month. Blessed with a husband who had calmly taken it all in stride from the first day we met.

The only light in the bathroom came through the partially opened door to our bedroom. I hadn't turned on the lights. I could see just fine. My pupils were probably slightly elongated, picking up every bit of available light.

Grooming could be done by feel anyway, I thought as I soaped my legs. It wasn't like I had to see to shave anything. A long time ago, when I was still in my teens, I'd found it was impossible to shave my legs. Horrific rashes and ingrown hair resulted overnight. After the family doctor treated several badly infected areas, he told me flatly to stop shaving. So I wore pantsuits instead of nylons, and only went swimming with the were-kids who tended to have the same problem. Fortunately I was fair, and the soft, quarter-inch to half-inch-long hair that covered me from upper thigh to ankle, then along the tops of my feet, was a downy blonde color. Truthfully I don't think I could have accepted the condition as easily if I'd been brunette.

Dislike of being in water was one feline trait that had never bothered me. I relaxed and floated in the tub, breathed the odor of lavender and mint, listened to the sound of the bedroom clock tick, picked up the tantalizing sound of birds chirping just outside the window. My thoughts drifted past the birds back to the sprawl of underwear . . .

 

Catching the mouse had been my first rite of passage into the paranormal world. The appointments with Old Robin and Lise had been prelude to the second.

Back then, in his early 50s, Robin Taylor had already been the most respected authority figure in Tawshasee County, by both para and normal communities, for at least 20 years. I'd seen him at a distance many times, the slim, wiry man whose hair -- they said -- had gone that silver white color when he was still in his early 30s. He moved through our world leaving the crackle of para-energy and the scent of weremusk, informing the knowledgeable of the fact an alpha werewolf had marked all Redbark as his territory.

Face to face with him in the same room, I was excited by the power that seemed to jump from his skin to mine, and comforted by the serenity I perceived in his dark eyes when he smiled at me. He welcomed me into his home, and we sat cross-legged on the floor of his living room on opposite sides of an oddly shaped, whorl-covered wood coffee table.

"I knew the twins, your uncles Thad and Ter," he had said. Old Robin has one of those deep, male voices that were made to read books on tape; rough and smooth at the same time, intimate and hypnotic, the sound of his voice made me want to cuddle up against him. Lise told me later that it was only a pup-reflex, but I still get that feeling today when I talk to him.

"We know less about werecats then we do about werewolves," Old Robin told me in that conversation. "There are fewer of you. And the gene seems less complete, or maybe nature intended that it accomplish something different than werewolf genes. What we do know is that out of 10 werecats, only one will actually go into the skin -- make a full transformation. Statistically this is exactly opposite to the werewolf population; only one in 10 among those having the wolf gene can't, or don't, make a full transformation."

"So I won't -- turn into a cat?" I had alternately fantasized about and dreaded that reality.

"I'm 99 percent sure you won't. Thad and Ter, and your grandmother, never went into the skin. Your mother told me you caught a mouse, and didn't transform. This tells me you're a normal werecat. You're going to notice increased sensitivity to odors. Your eyesight will be changing, your night vision radically improve. The need to prowl and hunt and sleep on an odd schedule will disrupt your life unless you establish a routine that fulfills these needs."

"But I don't want to kill mice!" Old Robin's words put some of my fears to rest, but I still felt tears stream down my cheeks. "I found myself under a robin's nest yesterday. I love baby birds, and I was going to climb . . ."

"But you didn't." Old Robin reached across the table and took my hands in his. Heat from his skin crawled up my arms. I realized Old Robin had a unique scent, similar to the odd odor I'd smelled around other changers. "You can control it. That's what the para-education classes are for. The first thing you need to remember is that you're human. You're not an animal. Even those who go into the skin aren't animals. The human mind remains, and was meant to control the gifts She has given to some of Her children."

"She?" Old Robin let go of my fingers, and I wiped my face on the back of my hand. "Grandma? This is a genetic thing, right?"

"Usually we can attribute para abilities to genetic heritage." He pulled a cotton handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me. "Your family is Methodist?"

I shook my head as I wiped my face.

"You'll be talking about many things in your para classes, the tangible and intangible ramifications of having para ability. You'll talk about social, ethical, moral and spiritual issues. You'll talk about God." Old Robin smiled at me. "When you hear someone talk about Her, the Mother, we're talking about God. It's a personal thing. You'll find your own vision of how the world works."

"Okay." I managed a watery smile. "I've got other friends in the classes."

"I wish I could get the board of education to make them a part of the regular school curriculum," Old Robin sighed. "Julie -- we haven't had a female werecat here since your grandmother. Lise is going to talk to you about something that will be harder for you to control than the hunting reflex. It's a conversation you'll find easier with a woman. But don't hesitate to come and talk to me about anything, even if it's hard for you. Any time. If I can't help you, I will find someone who can. Promise me that you'll ask for help if something bothers you, or seems out of your control?"

I was back to being scared. "I promise," I said.

 

The water in the tub was cold when I crawled out. I put on an ankle-length, comfortable red knit dress that Tom always slobbered over, and went to check on the chicken and set the table. I poured a glass of milk, then went into the living room to read while I waited for Tom.

I didn't have to wait long. The clock had just clicked onto 6:07 when I heard the car in the driveway. A pleasant flush of anticipation pulsed languidly from my chest down to my legs as the door opened and I smelled the familiar odors that my husband accumulated after a day on the job.

"Smells good in here, sweetheart. Chicken?"

"Chicken." I dropped my book and went into his arms for a long kiss

"You're purring. That tickles," Tom said against my earlobe.

"You'll want a shower." I pushed him away. "I'll put the food on the table."

"You're getting old, little cat. We used to have dinner afterwards."

I threw the couch pillow after him. "We'll see who's getting old, Mr. Sparetire. I've just achieved more control with maturity."

The sound of his laughter was audible until the shower started. As I piled salad into our bowls, I reminded myself that I still owed him a cuff for the crack about Bob's underwear.

 

After dinner, after pulling Tom's clothes off and rolling around with him enthusiastically, we cuddled and talked about the day’s events. The break-in was still a mystery. Nothing else of a criminal nature had occurred during his shift.

When Tom drifted off, I took a quick nap. Twenty minutes later I was wide-awake. Tom was out of it, snoring loudly. He's an early riser, normally up before 5 a.m., so unless something unusual is going on he's asleep before 10 at night.

It's been years since I slept more than four hours in a row. A routine of naps during the day -- some as short as five minutes -- and two to three hours at night, was all the sleep I normally required. When we first got married, I'd lay and watch Tom sleep, but that got boring. I could smell and hear other were out in the nighttime world, and eventually joined a community as active and routine as the one that exists in daytime Redbark. I could jog, hunt and prowl either alone or with older members of Robin's pack. I was too slow to keep up with the younger werewolves, but when they gathered at community hill before or after they went into the skin, there was the chance for gossip and fellowship under the stars.

Apart from the usually sociable werewolf pack, there were a few other were who have oddball genes like I do.

Meredith James, my best friend in the world, weighs 90 pounds on a fat day. She has skin like vintage satin glass the color of pearls, legs and arms that seem too long for the length of her torso, and short black hair that floats about her head with the slightest breeze. Meredith has webbing between her fingers, and a nearly translucent fold of webbing that stretches between the midpoint of her biceps to her rib cage. Meredith wears a lot of baggy sweatshirts, and frequently bitches about her inability to find a nice dress. If you touch Merry's hair, you realize it feels more like down than hair. Merry has never tried to change.

Gemma Penn almost went into the skin once, when she was young. The experience scared her family so much that Gemma now does everything she can to forestall another occurrence. Her irises are often slitted like mine, and the soft, scaled skin that covers her forearms like bronze panne velvet hasn't been attributable to any known species. We half joke that her were-gene must be from a reptilian creature last seen in an age with a scientific -ick name.

Merry doesn’t often turn up at the hill after midnight, but Gemma is usually there. I guess Gemma is my other best friend. She isn't a shopping buddy, like Merry. Gemma's the one I talk to, my confidant; we know more about each than most sisters do. She -- and Old Robin -- are the only ones I've ever talked to about Nate.

"Julie." Tom snorted and rolled over. "S'okay?"

I touched his shoulder. "Sleep, love." My wonderful husband. I doubted that there were many men in the world I could have stayed married to for the length of time we'd been together. Considering the rate of exchange among other normal and para couples, even without taking into account my special needs, we were in a growing minority. I remembered Mrs. T-A's words of praise for Tom, and her later observation about changing values. I wasn't sure I agreed with her. Humanity's basic values changed over centuries, not generations. The way she viewed underwear fell more in the area of cultural sensitivity, I thought with amusement.

Restlessness to go on the prowl nudged at me. I postponed the inevitable, and propped myself against the headboard with a couple of pillows wedged under my back. In the early days it had been difficult to develop a philosophical attitude that took into account society's cultural sensitivities concerning sex, and my own maturation. Staring into the moonlight spilled over the end of our bed, my mind drifted back to my first interview with Lise.

 

"Imagine trying to go for a full day without food or water."

Lise worked for the Department of Social Services as a private contractor specializing in para social analysis and intervention, and her house had an office where most people had a front parlor. When she showed me in and asked me to take a seat, I felt like I had been sent to see the principal.

"Okay," I answered nervously. "I've had the flu before, and couldn't eat or drink anything."

"What was the worst part about that?" Lise asked.

"Wanting a drink of water, and knowing I'd throw it up as soon as I swallowed it," I said, thinking hard.

"How badly did you want the water?"

"Pretty badly." I wondered where the conversation was going, and that made me less nervous.

Lise sighed and folded her hands on the desktop blotter. "Have you ever seen one of your barn cats go into heat?"

"Yes." The palms of my hands were suddenly damp. "They scream, sometimes."

"Their bodies are hungry," Lise said. "Their chemistry is demands they find a mate and have sex. Until they do, they're miserable. I'm not telling you this to scare you, Julie, but to give you the knowledge necessary to control this aspect of your life. I know Old Robin has reminded you that you're not an animal, but your body will make demands that are stronger than most normal people experience."

"I'm going to -- go into heat?" I whispered the words, appalled.

"I have booklets for you to read. They will give you information about women's cycles. You will always know when the time of heightened receptivity will occur for you. It's important to understand how your body works if you're going to control what you do during that time."

The rest of the conversation was numbingly embarrassing. Lise said more about masturbation and birth control than I ever wanted to hear from an adult's lips. She sent me home with booklets, the admonition to discuss everything with my mother, and an appointment to see her in a month.

My first period came and went just before I turned 13, and although it seemed like a lot of disagreeable, messy inconvenience, I breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn't anything worse.

I found I enjoyed the para classes as much or more than regular school. We talked about everything, and learned tons of stuff about para history, and each other. By my 15th birthday, I was routinely missing school and spending the better part of a week alone in my bedroom, once a month. I had come to understand Lise's question about hunger and thirst.

Nathaniel Carpentier was a universally popular kid, liked by both girls and boys. He'd gone into the skin just after his thirteenth birthday, as easily as a normal kid would pull on a pair of shorts. Nate was smart, good at sports, and beautiful to look at. His family was a stew of American Indian, Mediterranean and French heritage. Nate's dark, thick hair rippled with natural waves. His eyes were brown, and after his thirteenth birthday he always smelled like weremusk.

I was one of dozens of girls and young women who thought _Nate_ was a synonym for _sexy._ By the time I was 16, I only had to pick up his scent and I felt like the mid-cycle crazies were on me -- regardless of the time of month. My whole body ached, my skin felt tight and dry with the need to be touched, to roll around on the scent coming from Nate's body. Hunger was the wrong word. I felt like I hadn't eaten for a week, and Nate was a turkey dinner.

Gemma's the only person -- apart from Nate -- who knows the exact details of where my high school crush took me . . . in the barn, actually. How do we ever live to grow up, through stupid, risky adventures like climbing on the roof or wading near Dead Man's Hole; through the pain, frustration and heartache of our first loves? I only know most of us do, and that I did. Although Nate was only a couple of years older than I was, he understood what had happened and why. Probably because it happened to him a lot. He was warm and sweet, but explained carefully that he wasn't going to be my boyfriend.

Nate's been married twice. He's single right now. I think the second marriage lasted a week. He's just one of those men who don't fit the monogamous husband mold. Being were has nothing to do with it, at least I don't think it does.

As soon as I met Tom, my disappointment over Nate melted away. Although I'm not interested in bending or breaking our marriage vows, Nate's scent still makes my heart race. It's an involuntary physical reaction that I'm pretty sure happens for him, too. Fortunately, after all this time, it's Tom that my mind turns to when the need to roll takes control. Gemma's phrase. I find she's often cattier than I am. And when I fantasize about sex, sometimes I remember that afternoon in the barn, but more often I fantasize about what it would be like if my husband and I turned into cats and raised holy hell with the neighborhood mice.

 

I’d been still long enough. Moving carefully so I wouldn't wake Tom, I slid out of bed and went to push the curtains fully apart. The moon was three-quarters full, bright and luminous on the lawn and trees. The wind showered my face with splashes of wild, potent odors, and the urge to prowl became too strong to resist. I slipped on my night clothes -- dark cotton jeans, sweatshirt and running shoes -- left through the bedroom's patio door and followed my nose into the woods.

Slinking along the fringes of racket made by the scurry of countless tiny feet, I heard the pack call to the south, and an answering cry from a lone voice coming from the east, out toward Six Lakes. It would be a gorgeous night to roll in beach sand, stretch and groom, I thought. Old Robin would probably be there, and Lise, Marisa, and Nate . . .

I turned toward community hill instead. The sweet odor of wood smoke told me Gemma was probably stargazing.

"Didn't expect to see you tonight, Julie." Gemma typed on her laptop, comfortable in her oversized camp chair with footrest, flanked by a folding table that held thermos, cups and the plastic portfolio she always carried to protect her precious computer in the event of a sudden rain shower.

"It's been a different kind of a day." I grabbed a log from the woodpile in the brush behind her and added it to the fire. "We had a break-in at the store last night -- or this morning. No one's sure."

"I know. Luke told me." Gemma closed her laptop. "I did mention we’re dating?"

This was news as least as big as a vandal in Dr. Dentin's. Gemma's past luck with men had been notoriously bad, and Luke was nearly ten years younger than she was. "No, Gemma, you didn't tell me." I sat down on the communal log seat, and grinned at her across the dancing fire. "Way to go, girl. Sexual prime and all that."

"Little beas-s-t," Gemma said, her eyes glinting red in the firelight. "Don't dish it out if you can't take it back. Did your nose bring you after the wolves tonight?"

"Ouch." I felt my grin broaden. "Want to share girlish confidences?"

"No," Gemma said shortly. "Shut up and look toward the east. There's a meteor shower."

My shins were getting toasty, so I shifted position and watched Gemma's profile and the occasional fiery arc of a falling star.

"Mother’s tears,” Gemma said softly, and the moment slammed into me like a Mack truck into a concrete-reinforced wall, shook me like a cat shaking a mouse, then lifted my mind away from my body on a roller coaster that traveled to the bones of the earth, skimmed the seven seas, and shot me into orbit alongside those trapped meteors before it dropped me, shaking with wonder, back at our campfire.

Gemma must have heard me make a sound, because she turned toward and leaned forward. "You're crying," she said. "I can feel Her, tonight. Hear the pack."

From deep in the forest the pack called, many voices raised to greet the night. We sat listening. I wiped my eyes and thought about a poet I'd once read who wrote about being were. _Hearts pierced with diamond-edged primal joy_ , he'd said while describing the act of going into the skin. It occurred to me that the words perfectly described what I felt when She made herself known.

"Gemma?"

We both started. We'd been concentrating so hard that neither of us heard Luke coming up the hill. He was down wind from us, so I didn't even smell him until he stepped into the ring of firelight.

"Hello, Luke." Gemma shot me a look that clearly said I was to behave myself. "Grab a seat. We're watching the meteors."

Dressed in worn jeans and a light cotton sweater, with his hair still damp and tousled, Luke looked completely different from the neat young deputy I was accustomed to seeing. Cute. He was definitely cute. I also noticed that he'd given up the aftershave that usually overwhelmed me. The odors of pure, unscented soap and male skin told me he was consciously trying to make himself attractive to Gemma.

Luke sat down close to Gemma and tried to look at the sky instead of her.

"Tom didn't tell me if you'd made any progress on the break-in," I said, partly because I was interested, and partly because he was so obviously unsure of his welcome.

"I'm sure he didn't have the chans-s-e," Gemma said softly.

Luke looked between us. "The only fingerprints that have been identified on the mannequin holding that bustier thing belong to Bob and Mrs. T-A. There were a few smudges, nothing else."

"Why would someone go to the trouble," Gemma said, "that's what bothers me. There was nothing stolen -- right? Nothing damaged?"

"Just messed up," Luke agreed.

"More like disguised, or hidden," I said. "You saw it, Luke. The gaudiest stuff was buried under Carhartts and hats."

"It offended someone," Gemma said. "They were talking about the bustier in Joe's this afternoon. The bridge club thinks Bob has gone Frederick's of Hollywood on them."

"There's only the one," Luke managed to look thoughtful. "If somebody bought it, the window wouldn't look so . . ."

"S-s-scarlet?" Gemma laughed, something she rarely did. "I wouldn't freak out if you wanted to play dress up, Luke, but I won’t wear the thing.”

I stared at her. She had to be in love. Gemma was never this frank with casual acquaintances.

The firelight deepened the ruddy color blooming in Luke's cheeks. "Gemma --" He was saved from further embarrassment by the beep of his pager. "I have to go check in," he said.

"If they paged you, they probably paged Tom." I stood as he did. "You've got a radio in your car? I'll go with you."

Gemma flipped open her laptop. "I'll be here when you're done. Night, Julie."

 

For a normal human, Luke moved fast and quiet in the outdoors. I followed him down the hill, through the oak grove to the impromptu parking area just off C-88, the highway that led straight into Redbark. His car was an older Firebird that I’d never seen before, with a custom paint job. My fingers and accelerator foot tingled with the urge to get in and see what he had under the hood. I could hear him talking to dispatch through the open window. When I heard the address, I climbed into the car.

"I can't take you, Julie," Luke protested as we headed back toward town. "I'll drop you off at the office. We have to drive right past."

"You drop me off, and I'll be at the store nearly the same time you are," I said. "Tom can tell me I'm not wanted when we get there."

"This is serious, Julie. They think there's somebody still inside Dr. Dentin's. The window is empty again. We don't have any idea . . ."

"Who's on tonight?" I interrupted.

"Phil."

That was good. Phil D'Angelo had a cool head and cautious nature. He'd wait for Tom to get there unless the perp bumped into him in the alley while exiting Dr. Dentin's.

Luke went a block past the alley turn, shut off his lights and let the car creep back through the driveway that ran past the auto parts place and into the alley behind Dr. Dentin's. I could see the patrol car parked 20 feet away behind a dumpster, and as we got out of the Firebird, I could hear the sound of our Toyota's engine coming up behind.

"Julie. You know better." Tom scowled at me. He looked so cute, with his shirt hanging half out of his pants, and his hair sticking up in back, that I nearly started purring.

Phil came away from his position near the wide-open back door. "I could still hear noises a couple of minutes ago, from inside. Like boxes or furniture being pushed around," he said softly.

"Let's go in." Tom gestured for Luke to go first. "Stay put, little cat," he whispered. "Later we'll talk about why you're riding around with my deputy."

He touched my cheek as he moved past, and I had to suppress a strong desire to tackle him.

Instead I stood quietly, hardly breathing. I could hear the tiny sounds from the men as they tried to avoid the creakier sections of Dr. Dentin's old wood flooring. Beyond that, I heard nothing. The noises that Phil had spoken of must have stopped, or I would have heard those, too. What I did hear at that moment was another car motor, coming around the corner into the alley.

"Bob!" He must have a scanner at home, I realized as my boss threw open his car door and started toward the store. "You can't go in there."

"Julie?" He wore flannel nightwear under his raincoat, I could see, and beat up old-man slippers, the kind without heels. "What are you doing here?"

"The same thing you are, Bob. But I'm letting the police do their job."

He paused, tensely undecided, looking between the back door and me. "It's my store."

A loud crash turned the scales he was obviously attempting to balance in his mind. Bob pivoted and ran inside.

I followed. Tom could chew my butt later, if he caught me. I could move around in there more quietly than any of them. If they had everything under control, I'd just sneak out again.

I went down the far side of the store, through the children's clothing. The only light inside came from a few spotlights in the jewelry cases, the spots in the window displays, and the pink and green neon sign over the entrance to the shoe department. When I got near the front, I could see the Lady Regina display had been completely removed. I crouched near a rack of toddler pajamas and listened.

Tom had caught Bob. I heard them whispering furiously. I could smell Phil, who was up near the display, and hear Luke move nearly noiselessly toward the shoe department. And there was someone else, someone whose breath came fast and shallow, who smelled like . . .

Oh dear.

I ran toward the sound of Tom's voice. "Tom. Take Phil and Luke out of here. Please?"

"Julie. Doggone it. You know better.” Tom was furious. I could hear, see and smell it in him.

From the center aisle where they were standing, I could see a line of high top winter Sorrels someone had taken out of storage and arranged, single file, in a line that stretched from the window display into the lingerie and sleepwear section. "I know who it is, Tom. Just get your men out of here. Bob and I will handle it."

"Julie?" Bob's voice quavered. "You know who it is?"

I touched Tom's arm and stroked it.

"Luke. Phil," Tom called softly. "Outside. Wait."

"Tom?" Luke stopped next to us as Phil went creaking by. "You going to be okay?"

"Yes. Go." Tom waited until the last creak, then, "I trust you know what you're doing, Julie. Who's in here?"

"You’re not going to believe me." I went to the nearest Sorrel and took a look. A bra was stuffed inside the boot. Scanning the darkened store, I spotted an upright figure that wasn't normally in the middle of lingerie. The half-mannequin wearing the bustier stood on a footstool from the shoe department, covered by one of the nicer men’s velour robes we sold.

I went back to get Bob, and led him to stand in the garish illumination from the shoe sign. "Say something," I told him, softly.

"Say something?" Bob’s hands moved in and out of his pockets in agitated uncertainty. "Hello? I'd appreciate it if you'd quit messing up my window."

"Robert. Those are absolutely first-rate boots. Why can’t you find comparable quality in women’s shoes?"

Both men gasped as Mrs. T-A stepped out from behind the shoe shelves.

"Althea?" Tom sounded like he didn’t believe the evidence of his own eyes.

"No." Bob and I said, in the same breath.

"Not exactly," I added.

"You can't put those things in my window," she said, in a dreamy voice that carried the hint of an English accent. "They're just not proper, Robert. Some of those lovely twin-sets and skirts would be thing for this time of year. But you know that. I knew right away you'd be a successful businessman when you sold your Grandfather that book of coupons for hand-squeezed lemonade."

"Grandma Gina." Bob was rigid with shock. "But . . . but they're very high quality goods. Lady Regina -- I thought of you when I first saw the name."

"It's nice that you think of me, dear, but I don't appreciate having my name associated in any way with such a vulgar display. Dr. Dentin's is a family establishment, upholding a strong tradition of encouraging appropriate family-oriented values. It would be best if you disposed of those things, Robert."

Pink and green neon shadows dappled the old lady’s hair, and cast odd shadows across her half-open eyes. I heard Mrs. T-A's breathing change pace, deepen and slow, and I took a step toward her, extending my hand.

"Time to close the store, Grandma Gina. How about a nice cup of tea? Bob will get rid of the underwear. You leave Mrs. Turing-Arnold alone. She's going to be mortified when she finds out that she helped you empty the window."

"She's a very good woman. I approve of her, Robert."

With those words, Mrs. T-A slumped bonelessly to the floor. I half-caught her, and Tom was immediately beside us.

"I can't believe it. Grandma Gina," Bob blathered.

"Pull yourself together," I said. "Turn on the lights, pack up the underwear, and put something simple in the window."

Tom held the tiny lady nestled in his arms. Her eyes were peacefully closed, her sleeping mouth curved in enough of a smile to reveal her dimple.

"What do we do with her?" Tom asked.

"Take her home. I'll put her to bed. With any luck, she won't wake until morning." I'd have to call Old Robin, and our psychic. They could drop in and talk to her tomorrow. Lady Macbeth finally fell into place. Althea Turing-Arnold was a channel. How would she respond, I wondered, this very proper 60+ lady, to find out she had para ability -- and probably had been para all her life?

 

I'm still not sure how she took it. Bob gave Mrs. T-A a week of vacation time, and she left town to visit her only daughter in Belham. The next morning there were twin-sets in the front window of Dr. Dentin’s, and later in the day UPS picked up several large boxes back in shipping. Bob told me he was selling the rest of the Lady Regina line to one of the strip-mall shops in Belham. I hoped Mrs. T-A wouldn't see it in a window while she was there. But, since it wasn't the front window of Dr. Dentin's, it probably wouldn't rouse the shade of Grandma Gina.

Tom gave me a stern lecture about interfering with the police when he got home from his shift the following afternoon.

I gave him a lengthy massage. Later, I headed into the night toward community hill.

Gemma was there, and Luke, and a couple of changed werewolves hunkered next to the fire. It was Old Robin and one of the young, just turned were-kids. Old Robin nosed my hand, grinned, then slid down the hill like a streak of mercury in the moonlight with his tagalong close behind.

"This isn't a spot I'd choose for courtship," I said, sitting down on the log next to Luke. "I know you both have your own places."

"Offhand, I can't think of a spot you wouldn't choose for courtship," Gemma said, hands flying over her keyboard. "I'm not going to alter my routine for him. I come up here to work. He doesn't seem to mind."

"I don't," Luke said. "You know, that's the first time I've ever seen Old Robin in the skin? I knew who it was, right away."

Gemma snorted. "He's the only white wolf around. Some detective. Are you going to rush off and arrest any old ladies tonight?"

"She's in a bad mood," I told Luke. "The temperature only reached 62 today. Her body temperature is probably too low -- have you noticed how cold-blooded she is? Maybe if you warmed her up a little . . ."

"S-s-s." Gemma shut her laptop. "Go catch a mouse, little cat."

"Night, guys." I wished I could see Gemma's face when they delivered the bustier to her house tomorrow. With luck, Luke would be around when it arrived.

Willingness to give, rather than expecting to receive -- that could be considered a basic family value. Couldn't it? Grandma Gina would be pleased with the sentiment, if not the way I found to express it.

Laughing in anticipation, I followed the trail that Old Robin had taken toward the forest.


End file.
